


WARM ME UP IN A NOVA'S GLOW ★

by noctambule



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, Healing, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Shiro (Voltron), Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 13:38:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19335610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctambule/pseuds/noctambule
Summary: A touch-starved sham. It's what Shiro's been feeling like ever since he was brought back to life, and as he embarks on a harsh journey of self-discovery, Keith helps him find his way back to the man he was. To the man he's always been.--There’s a faint brushing sound against the door, and Shiro’s frown slightly dissipates as he straightens up, his attention lingering on his reflection. He’s always half-expecting it to move, a distortion of himself dimmed by the violet hue of a frenzied gaze, but his face remains the same, no matter how many times he blinks: pale, tired, and a little distant around the eyes.“You okay?”Yes, and no. Yes because he has to be. No because he can’t be, not when his skin doesn’t feel like his own. Keith’s concern for him is misplaced, undeserved, and Shiro’s focus swivels down, a humorless smile as he scoffs and makes his way to the door. This body hurt him. The boy he took under his wing. The friend he swore never to give up on. The man he eventually fell for, his love for him changed yet unaddressed. He doesn’t feel worthy of Keith’s devotion, and it’s the greatest tragedy of his life, to yearn for off-limit fantasies he won’t even allow himself to conjure up anymore.





	WARM ME UP IN A NOVA'S GLOW ★

**Author's Note:**

> so. @manily gave me this prompt which i happily filled. i just very recently lost my kitty furball tho, so this might be a lil more angsty than originally intended. this chapter can definitely be read as a standalone, tho if you don't wanna miss the actual smut, stay tuned for the second part! (or pretend i'm a youtuber and pls subscribe).
> 
> huge thanks to atlas as always, for pointing me in the right directions. this ficlet was vaguely inspired by "castle of glass" by linkin park.
> 
> come flail with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/elfrooted), and if you enjoy reading this fic, don't hesitate to leave a comment ❤

Seven.

Seven blemishes on his body, impending scars in the making. It’s a dozen less than there should be, and Shiro observes his reflection with a scrutiny meant for foes, sweat pearling at his brow. His head is a millstone between the broad of his shoulders, rivulets of water running down his cheeks and his chin, palm curled tight around the edge of the sink. _Who are you_ . It’s a question he asks himself every night, and he’s yet to find a proper answer. _A stranger in his own flesh_ . The man who stares back from the other side of the mirror certainly _looks_ like him, but he doesn’t _feel_ the same.

Nothing does.

It’s a jarring experience to be blasted out of your corpse, only to wind up trapped as an abstract _thought_ in a foreign dimension. A wandering soul with no earthly tether, existing alone in the vastness of space. Five months down the road and he still dreams of Black’s consciousness. Of her soothing presence, of _Keith’s_ , but ultimately, there was only solitude and silence to answer his call, forgotten and replaced. It hurt. _Physically_ , even though he floated in nothingness, and it’s an ache that’s never really subsided, only made worse now that he lives again, his body an enemy.

“Shiro?”

There’s a faint brushing sound against the door, and Shiro’s frown slightly dissipates as he straightens up, his attention lingering on his reflection. He’s always half-expecting it to _move,_ a distortion of himself dimmed by the violet hue of a frenzied gaze, but his face remains the same, no matter how many times he blinks: pale, tired, and a little distant around the eyes.

“You okay?”

Yes, and no. Yes because he _has_ to be. No because he _can’t_ be, not when his skin doesn’t feel like his own. Keith’s concern for him is misplaced, _undeserved_ , and Shiro’s focus swivels down, a humorless smile as he scoffs and makes his way to the door. This body hurt _him_ . The boy he took under his wing. The friend he swore never to give up on. The man he eventually _fell_ for, his love for him changed yet unaddressed. He doesn’t feel worthy of Keith’s devotion, and it’s the greatest tragedy of his life, to yearn for off-limit fantasies he won’t even allow himself to conjure up anymore.

 _Patience yields focus_ , but ever since he had to watch his friends interact with a fraud they all assumed was _him_ , patience hasn’t yielded much of anything but pain.

He opens the door, striving to keep his face void of anything but warmth. It’s not a difficult feat when he’s met with an eyeful of Keith, grown more ethereal than a nebula, his beauty made of cosmic intensity. Something in Shiro’s chest always _swells_ at the sight of him, the midnight blue of his eyes star-flecked from the firmament above. His quiet dispositions have never done his vehemence justice, but then again, periods of singular tranquility often precede a storm. Shiro wonders, distantly, if the same aura of misleading calmness presages the explosion of a star, but he’s been caught so many times in the gravitational collapse of Keith’s fury that _yes_.

It probably does.

It’s there in his eyes, tempered but vibrant; still impetuous, Keith is a lot more subdued than he once was, with a softness about him that just about renders Shiro helpless. Keith always looks at him as though he’s on the verge of losing him again, and it’s a bitter pill to swallow. _As many times as it takes_ , but how long until the hourglass breaks under too much pressure? How long until the universe says _no_ , you’ve stretched this metaphorical rubber-band as far as it can go?

Maybe he was never meant to be saved. He’s always lived on borrowed time, after all, but Keith… _Keith_ won’t take no for an answer, and it’s all Shiro can do not to crumble here at his feet and beg for forgiveness.

Instead he remains still, careful not to flinch as his gaze inevitably falls to the scar etched onto his cheek, and it’s shaped like one of his many grievances. His heart _sinks_ , fingers twitching at his side.

“You’ve been in there for an hour, Shiro.”

And he studies him with _intent_ , in search of anything that might be off. Shiro swallows hard, offers what he hopes might look like a reassuring smile.

“Huh, I must have lost track of time.” He clears his throat, searching for the right thing to say. “There’s nothing to worry about, Keith. I just needed to freshen up.”

Keith considers him for a moment, expression unreadable; if Shiro knows him as well as he likes to think he does, he’d say Keith doesn’t believe him. It’s not a _lie_ . He _was_ freshening up; sanitary accommodations in space are rather scarce, and Black offers a modicum of comfort, with a bathroom that’s barely big enough to fit his built and a bunk meant for one. They manage. _Keith_ does, mostly; Shiro’s already caught himself staring too many times as Keith slept, a dull ache in his solar plexus that never really ebbs away.

It’s still there when their eyes lock, and Shiro doesn’t know how to handle the duality of his current reality. He wants to reach out for him _so badly_ , but touching Keith in any way now feels wrong. It’s what grounded him before. _Them_ . Something so natural they touched each other out of habit, because it felt _right_ , and now, he’s just so afraid of hurting him again.

No matter how much he craves all the things he won’t allow himself anymore.

It’s driving him _mad_.

Keith doesn’t share the same reservations. His arm rises up and his palm curls around Shiro’s severed limb, where it’s still mangled and ragged and _ugly_ . He touches him like he’s the same man he’s always known, _his best friend_ , like he doesn’t mind that he’s damaged and broken. Like he embraced everything Shiro is and _can_ be a long time ago, no matter the outcome, his outer shell only that; _flesh_ , solely made to shelter a heart, a mind and a soul Keith is adamant on protecting.

Like he’s worth being cared for.

It’s almost too much. Shiro _does_ flinch then, an unwelcome sting in his eyes, and before he can fully grasp the hurt that’s settled in Keith’s, he excuses himself in mumbled gibberish and makes a beeline for his bed.

He doesn’t sleep, and from the way Keith seems to toss and turn all night, Shiro doesn’t think he does, either.

 

★ ✩ ★

 

The journey home is long and perilous, and Shiro passes the time stuck between nightmares and unseemly longing. He feels inadequate. _Useless_ . His team isn’t his own anymore, and he’s not really one of them either. He’s just a passerby at this point, another mouth to feed. Nothing more. They frequently stop to replenish their supplies on hospitable planets, and Shiro can’t even _fight_ properly; Keith shields him still whenever they face danger, but if there’s one thing that overshadows Shiro’s chagrin, it’s his pride.

Keith has come a long way. The broad of his body leaves him breathless for one, but more than that, his inner strength is an inspiration that never ceases to amaze Shiro. Keith always had that potency in him. He’s been a force of nature from the get go, and Shiro merely helped him _see_ what he knew was already there. Shiro didn’t make him into the man he’s become. Capable. Steadfast. _Beautiful_ . He leads with homegrown aplomb and a gentleness that barely seeps through his resolve, but it’s _there_ , and Shiro’s never been so enamored with anything in his entire life.

It’s the reason why he can’t stay. Revolving in Keith’s vicinity is a luxury he can’t afford any longer, not if he wishes to remain sane. He helps with directions, with maneuvers, though it’s pointless, and he’s fairly sure that Keith simply asks for his guidance out of habit. He doesn’t need him. No one does, and Shiro can’t keep gawking, can’t keep finding excuses to be near him, only to recoil when Keith smiles hushed and reaches for him. He still feels like a fraud in so many ways, because he’s _still_ hurting him, and he wishes Keith could see how much better off he’d be without him.

Shiro asks Pidge whether she’d mind taking him in one morning, and he walks away stiff as a broom, knowing that Keith lingers behind and watches him go, his ramrod spine a little crooked.

 

★ ✩ ★

 

Shiro’s distance doesn’t seem to deter Keith, when it comes to life-or-death situations. Sendak never stood a chance, though neither did Shiro. Caught in the waves of Keith’s tenacity, it’s difficult to stay afloat, and Shiro drowns a little more every day.

 _Captain of the Atlas_ . Shiro has a purpose again, a role to play, and still he is left feeling bereft, navigating through his new reality on wobbling knees. How can any of them trust him? How can _Keith_? It’s almost infuriating, how readily they’ve accepted him again, and Shiro reels between self-loathing and a desperate need to belong. His new arm is a nuisance, more than anything; mostly in the metaphorical sense. He’s a literal weapon on legs and he keeps everyone at bay, doing as is required of him and more. He barely sleeps. Overworking himself is an effective way to numb the pain, though it does very little in terms of recovery.

He falters, when Keith falls. When Shiro realizes with a deep sense of terror that he might never see him again, and that instead of _talking_ , he pushed him away for _months_ , wasting the kind of time that none of them can afford to lose. He’s at his bedside for days on end, while Keith recovers through sleep, hunched on a chair beside him and dozing off with his hand curled around his.

“Shiro?”

Krolia. It’s been a week and she has watched over her son with a love so fierce she couldn’t be anyone but his mother. They’re alike in so many ways that it gives Shiro some peace of mind, to think that Keith will never have to be alone again. That he has a family.

But then her focus sharpens on him, her scrutiny as fiery as her son’s when Keith is hell-bent on getting answers, and Shiro feels himself _shrink_.

“Yes, ma'am?”

 _Ma'am_ . If he could shrivel into nothingness just about _now_ , he would, but instead he waits for the ground to open wide and swallow him whole, Krolia’s stare razor-sharp.

It doesn’t, and then she asks a question that’ll haunt him in his dreams.

“What are you doing?”

Such a simple question, and so ridiculously loaded. _He doesn’t know_ . He isn’t sure what she means, exactly, or maybe he _does_ ; he lets go of Keith’s hand like it’s burnt a hole through his own, and quickly excuses himself.

He still feels the warmth of Keith’s fingers when he reaches his room, and in the confines of his quarters, he spends an obscene amount of time staring at his knuckles. _Touch_ . The concept is foreign, but where Keith’s skin brushed against his, he can almost remember what it’s like, to be himself, a part of him restored, and he scowls forlorn into the crook of his hand. He wants to learn what it feels like again, to inhabit his own body. To be one with the bones that mold a physique he was once proud of, for all the efforts he put into keeping his disease at bay. More than anything, he wants to feel as though _this_ body is a second chance, but second chances are usually attributed to people who deserve them, and he’s already left so much pain in his wake.

Heaving a sigh, he plops down onto the bedding and palms his face, elbow resting on his thigh. When his shoulders stop shaking and his breath stops catching in the back of his throat, he blinks a wary gaze up towards the mirror and loses himself in restless slumber.

 

★ ✩ ★

 

Curtis is the first man, since Adam, to openly flirt with him. It’s odd. He’s absolutely shameless in his intentions and Shiro allows it for reasons he doesn’t fully understand. The guy is interesting in his own right. Good-looking, too, though Shiro notices this only in passing, the same way he would a pretty painting. There’s no attraction there; Keith captured all of his attention eons ago, and owns him completely. There’s nothing else, for him. _No one else_ , even if he can’t ever have Keith.

Maybe it’s why Shiro doesn’t recoil from Curtis’ touch. It’s barely anything at all; oftentimes he’ll just “accidentally” bump into Shiro, or let his hand linger a moment too long on his back, and the truth is… it feels _good_ . Curtis never knew him before. Before he died, before he stopped being _himself_ . It’s like a new beginning altogether, but Shiro still doesn’t want Curtis to be the dawn of a new life. He doesn’t want a new life at all; he merely wishes he could get back what he’s lost, and in a way, Curtis makes him feel like he’s worth something. Worth looking at. Worth touching. Worth all the mistakes Shiro still hasn’t forgiven himself for, _without_ the guilt. It’s only when Keith stumbles upon them down the hall, Curtis’ arm around his shoulders, that he realizes how wrong this is; the truth is that Keith will always be the only one who could help him remember who he was, who he _is,_ and it’s the kind of pain he doesn’t know how to cope with.

How do you turn around and ask the only person you’ve ever truly loved, the same one you’ve actively _avoided_ , to just… touch you? To map a body that still feels alien, to chart with their hands unknown territories, and guide you home?

Keith doesn’t say anything when he catches them together. It’s innocent enough, yet Shiro’s ears heat up like he’s done something bad. He can’t read him, even though Keith’s always been an open book to him, and maybe that’s what hurts the most. Even more than the way Keith simply keeps walking, past them and resolute, and Shiro wonders if the tremor in his chin is an illusion.

Home is where the heart is, or so they say, and it’s just his luck that his own now occupies a cluster of fragmented hopes.

 

★ ✩ ★

 

Despite the distance they both keep, Keith watches him like a hawk. He doesn’t _pry_ , but his attention doesn’t stray far, even as he seemingly respects Shiro’s self-imposed boundaries. He misses him. _Them_ . So much it hurts, _physically_ , a twinge that spirals down from where his heart beats weary. It’s not what Shiro wants or needs, but it’s _safe_ , at least for Keith, and  that’s all that really matters.

Keith’s gaze is implacable as they all discuss Haggar’s whereabouts around a table, and Shiro carefully eludes its scrutiny. He’s not paying attention. His head hurts, unfocused as he struggles to concentrate on the conversation at hand. There’s a faint buzz in the back of his skull; it deafens the voices of his friends, and as he feels himself slowly slipping away, the last thing he remembers seeing is _Keith_ , chair scraping against the marbled floor as he pushes himself up, his face a mishmash of dread and confusion.

“Shiro!”

And Shiro passes out.

He’ll learn a few hours later that sleep deprivation mixed with a lack of essential nutrients is a terrific cocktail for those seeking their own slow demise. Shiro’s stopped taking care of himself the same way he always has before, and the scolding Sam Holt gives him makes him feel like a child. He’s a grown man, for fuck’s sake… and it’s the first time he fully realizes how badly he needs help.

Keith gets to him _first_ . He finds Shiro in his office, and it’s really no surprise at all that he’d still be there after being given medical clearance; _honest to god_ , he was _just_ on the verge of contacting his therapist. It doesn’t stop him from barging in uninvited, and the look he gives Shiro is _harsh_ , laced with the kind of gentleness that only _Keith_ can muster when his eyes are literal daggers.

“What are you _doing_.”

Ah. Like mother like son, he supposes, but it’s not a question. Keith stands tall and solid in front of his desk, gloved knuckles curled tight at his sides. He looks angry, but Shiro’s known him long enough now to know that it’s not what it is. It’s _pain_ , an abyss of old hurts unresolved, of tangible fears, and they hollow out Shiro’s heart, pulsing somewhere in his throat.

“Keith…”

“When were you gonna _talk_ to me?” he demands through gritted teeth, and Shiro hates himself for making him worry. For pushing him away when he’s only ever dreamed of keeping him close, for not knowing how to apologize. For not even _trying_ to.

He glances downward and frowns, and braces himself for what’s to come; Keith’s never been known to pull any punches.

“I’m trying to give you space, Shiro, but something’s gotta give.”

“I’m sorry,  Keith—”

“I don’t want your apologies!” he half-yells, and Shiro’s head snaps up, just in time to witness a seed of rage bloom in Keith’s gaze, only to watch it wither a second later. He’s scared. Maybe as much as Shiro is, and Shiro stands up with the kind of confidence he hasn’t felt in ages, rounding his desk to face Keith without barriers.

Keith visibly swallows, but he doesn’t budge, and they search each other’s faces and Keith’s grows impossibly softer, carving a hole through his chest.

“You never had anything to apologize for,” he says, and his voice is low, ragged with emotions he doesn’t know how to let loose, and it’s Shiro’s fault.

Shiro sighs, momentarily closing his eyes as his flesh and blood fingers _shake_ at his side. “I _hurt_ you.”

He shouldn’t be surprised to feel Keith’s warmth around his hand then, but a little gasp escapes his lips nonetheless, eyes fixed on a vision of such gentle fervor they _sting_ ; he doesn’t want to cry _here_ , in front of him, though he just might. Keith’s the anchor he’s always sought. The tether his soul didn’t have, back in the Astral Plane, and he feels whole at the center of his attention and he doesn’t know how to explain that it scares and exhilarates him in equal measures.

“I don’t _care_ about the scar, Shiro,” Keith gives his hand a _squeeze_ , and Shiro stares with a mixture of wariness and bewilderment, like he misheard somehow. “Please. Don’t… shut me out.”

His jaw clenches, and a long moment passes before he gathers enough strength to speak the next words, barely a whisper.

“Keith… You should hate me.”

And Keith’s eyes _widen_. His grasp loosens too, though it tightens again almost immediately, and Shiro watches in his gaze shadows and lights colliding; Keith takes a step closer, and Shiro holds his breath.

“Shiro,” he shakes his head slightly, eyes narrowed and so painfully beautiful, fixed on _him_ . “It wasn’t _you_.”

“ _This_ body—”

“Controlled by someone else,” Keith cuts him off as he leans in, making a point to hold his gaze. “I got you back that day, Shiro. We went through hell and back together, and I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

 _For you_ . He doesn’t say it, but it’s implied in the way that moisture gathers at the corners of his eyes; it hits Shiro like a brick in the face then, how they were always meant to revolve around each other. Keith speaks of his scar like it’s a token of a beloved memory, and maybe it is. Were the situations reversed, Shiro would no doubt think the same way, and as his breath leaves him in a rush, he feels _it_ . The visceral pull between them, larger than life, larger than _death_ , and Shiro doesn’t want to deny himself anymore.

 _This_ is where he belongs.

“Keith,” he all but sighs, and Keith searches his gaze with such adoration Shiro doesn’t know how he’s missed the simple truth of _them_ this entire time.

So he tells him. How he hasn’t felt _whole_ since Allura managed to transfer his soul into this body. Since Keith’s heartfelt cry literally brought him back to _life_ . He tells Keith about his many spells of dissociation, and how badly he wants to be touched, if only to _feel_ again, to remember who he is. He tells him how terrifying this all has been, and how he’s lost count of all the times he thought about reaching out, ultimately too ashamed to speak up.

He keeps a few things to himself. His attraction, for one. His affection, too, grown constant and unbounded through time and space, and Keith listens with the patience of a saint. _Patience yields focus_. Pain, too. And if sustained long enough, it yields an armful of Keith.

Keith doesn’t hesitate. Shiro doesn’t explicitly ask for _his_ touch, though it doesn’t matter; he _understands_ , carefully wrapping his arms around Shiro the moment he’s done talking, and he holds him there with the faint light of the moon pouring through drawn curtains, the rhythm of their hearts beating in unison.

For the first time in a long time, all is right with the world.

 

★ ✩ ★

 

 _Physical contact_ . It’s a lost habit they regain easily. Shiro’s therapy sessions help immensely, and though he lets himself freely gravitate towards Keith, he keeps his own touch as tame as possible. The fear of hurting him, of hurting _anyone_ , isn’t one he’ll conquer overnight. It’s fine. Keith knows, and he doesn’t shy away from anything; it helps Shiro re-center himself, a grounding presence he’s sorely missed. A teammate, a friend… and maybe something more.

The pace at which they grow close again is a thrill he wasn’t expecting to feel. They’ve always been _beyond_ . It’s how Lance described them once, for how intrinsically linked they seemed to be. _You’re just… beyond_ , and he gestured wildly then, as if Shiro was just supposed to get it… and he kind of does. There’s no conscious thought behind their dynamic. They’ve always operated instinctively, and it’s a connection Shiro is _beyond_ grateful to see thrive again, as if they’d never grown apart.

Deep down, where their hearts beat the same, maybe they never did.

Keith makes a point to touch him any chance he gets. Shiro’s rather partial to the simple weight of his hand on his shoulder, but he’s grown particularly fond of his hugs, lingering longer than they should when it’s time to part ways, or even when Keith returns from a BoM mission. The war is finally over. It’s easier to breathe, but more than that, it’s easier to think, to _feel_ , and the tender glances Keith covertly shoots him keep him awake longer than they should, a giddy smile on his face when he finally falls asleep.

He doesn’t know how it happens. _When_. Keith winds up in his bed once, where they discuss tedious meetings, until the conversation drops to a whisper. Until it becomes a cluster of stars, hopes and dreams shared in sleep-toned voices, eyes riveted on the sky above. Shiro’s ceiling is a vast window through which the moon often shines enormous, and with Keith by his side, he couldn’t dream of a better place to be.

He stays over. Many times. He falls asleep with his arm thrown over Shiro’s waist, and Shiro stops breathing every time, contemplating the view Keith unreservedly offers. He _trusts_ him. Shiro could cry for how much it stirs him in all the right places, and every night he’s given this gift, even though by morning Keith is always gone.

It’s unusual, maybe, for friends to cuddle under the stars, but it’s what they are. _Unusual_ . Shiro wonders whether it’s gone too far when Keith shows up late one night, already clad in his pajamas: a red shirt and a pair of black shorts. They’ve always done this fully clothed, but Shiro isn’t about to turn him down; it’s almost as if Keith came here for the sole purpose of _cuddling_ , and Shiro’s heart does a stupid thing in his chest, tainting his skin darker.

He welcomes him without a word; they don’t always need them, and the silence feels comfortable. Keith slips under the covers with the same savage grace that’s always characterized his demeanor, incredible heat radiating off of him. He’s become Shiro’s cocoon of warmth, and Shiro sighs content as soon as Keith finds him beneath the sheets. He doesn’t hold him, like he usually does. Instead he stares for what feels like an eternity, fingers soft as they card through the white of his forelock, and Shiro blinks mesmerized. Keith’s done this before—playing with his hair—but it was in passing, and not with the expression his face sports now, intensely tender despite the solemn gleam of his eyes.

 _Keith_ . His name is stuck in Shiro’s throat, behind a lump he can’t dislodge. His face feels warm, and his breath shorter, when Keith’s hand travels down to his bare arm. Shiro wears a tank top and grey boxers, and Keith’s light fingers on his skin causes a long shiver to run down his spine. It’s a _caress_. Deliberate and painfully slow, Keith’s breath hot and minty across his face.

“Keith,” he finally croaks, and he swears his skin is just as pink as his own, though there’s nothing else in Keith’s gaze that betrays his bashfulness.

...except the very light crease between his brows, when their eyes meet again, and Shiro swallows down a dry gulp, his hand hovering still between them.

“Can I… touch you too?”

There’s a spark in Keith’s eyes, flashing dark and bright all at once; he _nods_ , and Shiro’s fingertips reach where he’s always longed to reach, hesitant along the dented contour of his scar.

Keith closes his eyes. His breath comes out in soft, staccato puffs, as if trying to keep his heart from pounding out of his rib cage. Something transpires between them. It’s the same gravitational pull, but it’s infinitely softer, an electric current that prompts Shiro to inch closer, ankles intertwined.

His breath _hitches_ , and he loses himself in the midnight blue of Keith’s eyes, only the stars to watch over them.

It’s the first time he allows himself to really _touch_ Keith, and it’s a dazzling experience that leaves him trembling. He’s impossibly gorgeous in the faint glow of the night sky, Shiro’s exploration of him tame and cautious. He watches for any sign of discomfort as his hand gently strokes the firm line of his jaw, his neck, gliding down the expanse of his clothed bicep before slipping lower still, poised around his waist. He waits for a clue that quickly betrays Keith’s impatience, and when Shiro feels grabby fingers sneaking underneath his top, he breathes out a faint, barely there laugh, letting his own roam free across the planes of Keith’s back.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, lazily caressing each other’s skin, gazes locked in gentle scrutiny. It’s a little hard to swallow as Shiro’s body seemingly awakens, and it finally feels like it _should_. Keith’s chest rises and falls, slow and deep, and he must have moved closer somehow, because Shiro can feel Keith’s heart against his own, and their noses bump together.

“Keith,” he says again, a murmur this time, and Keith _nuzzles him_ , causing  Shiro’s lashes to momentarily flutter low. “Keith...”

“Shiro,” he breathes out and _god help him_ , he can almost feel his lips against his.

It’s warm, it’s a torment, it’s _everything_ , and Shiro’s affection for him surges up in a rush, his voice thicker _._

“I love you too.”

Whispered before he’s even realized his mouth was moving, the echo of a far-off confession; Keith stills in his arms, tilting his head for a better glimpse of his face, and Shiro flushes all over.

“Shiro..?”

It’s a truth he’s known for far too long now, left unspoken out of fear, and he doesn’t want to hide any longer. So he cuts himself open, cupping his face as his own pulse deafens everything else, losing and finding himself in the depth of Keith’s widened eyes.

“I know I’m... _god_. Over a year too late. I’m sorry I never told you.”

Keith’s nostrils _flare_ , his voice inaudible as he mouths his disbelief—his _relief_ , maybe—unblinking.

“You _heard_ me.”

“I was with you the entire time, Keith,” Shiro says with a forlorn smile, brushing the pad of his thumb across his jaw. He was beside him as he piloted Black, and every time he held back tears and hoped for him. It got so bleak once he left with the Blades, but Shiro remembers his abstract heart, when Keith came back, filled with such pride it still consumes him now.

Shiro sighs and lets their noses brush lightly, Keith’s hand like a firebrand on his skin.

“You kept me afloat,” Shiro smiles softly, and Keith’s ankle coils tighter around his, inching closer until their foreheads touch. “You kept me _sane_. You still do, even now.”

“Shiro...”

“There’s so many things I should have done differently,” Shiro continues, and his smile wavers, his chest so full he feels light-headed. “You’re so brave, Keith. And I’m…”

“You’re brave too,” Keith argues with pinched eyebrows, and his hand mimics Shiro’s, light across the side of his face. “You went through so much more than any of us ever will, and you’re still here.”

“Because of you.”

“You’re alive because you _fought_ to stay alive, Shiro. Sure, I helped, but you say I’m brave and maybe I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you.”

Ah, the age-old argument Shiro can never expect to win. He doesn’t want to. He’s content just being here, with Keith’s nose so soft against his, and his eyelids droop lower.

“If it weren’t for you, maybe I wouldn’t be here at all,” Keith adds softly, and Shiro’s reminded of his own gratitude, and how they both share the same kind of appreciation.

 _We saved each other_.

The corner of Shiro’s lips quirks up, and his body arches and bows for him, crowding him even closer.

“Maybe we’re stronger when we’re together,” he muses out loud, and Keith’s fingers curl behind his nape, dragging him lower with his face pinched into an expression he can’t fully decipher.

“Shiro?”

It’s softer than a whisper, and Shiro hums in response, tipping and dipping his chin in unison with Keith’s as though chasing each other’s breath. Keith’s a little short, lips pressed into a thin line and then pursed slightly, the faintest wrinkle forming between his brows.

“I don’t love you like a brother should,” he admits in all seriousness, and Shiro chuckles in spite of himself, strands of black hair teasing his face.

“I was hoping you didn’t.”

And there’s nothing left to say.

They drift towards each other, Keith’s body pressed against him as if to hug the space where Shiro’s missing. His own name touches his skin in a thick murmur, and Shiro hums again, lashes drooping shut as Keith nuzzles the tip of his nose, catching his sigh. He leans in, _against_ him, and he's falling, warmth seeking warmth until lips brush against lips, once, twice, and they linger there, hovering in agonizing anticipation. _Keith_ , he thinks he says, and he must have, because Keith nods lazy, breath heavier as their lips meet longer, a muffled sound in the back of his throat.

And everything changes.

Calloused fingers cup Keith’s face a little harder, pulling him closer and kissing him with a hint of desperation he doesn’t even try to hide. It _hurts_ . It hurts because he's never felt this good before, and he doesn't know why he's waited so long. Keith moans against him, _shivers_ , and Shiro’s hand drops to his shoulder, to his arm, around his waist and firm against the small of his back, and still it's not enough, because he wishes he could touch him everywhere. _All at once_ . It’s the culmination of too much time spent apart, when they should have been together, and it’s deep and it’s hot and it’s _good_ , a groan in Shiro’s throat as it grows more urgent, _beyond_ , and then the same sound from Keith.

Keith’s fingers are in his hair, twisted sharp, his body continually pushing against his own as if trying to melt into him. Shiro curls around his shape, a perfect fit; this is it. _Keith_. His armor. It's what it feels like and it's an odd comparison, but he's so far past scrutinizing his feelings in search of flaws. He surrenders here, wrapped around him and giving him everything he has, everything he is, lips parted and eager against his, a note of desire between them.

It’s hard to say how long they stay there, clinging to each other in the quiet of his room. All he knows is that his neck began hurting a hundred sighs ago, and he'll gladly take a hundred more if it means kissing him longer. If it means exploring him further. It doesn’t go any farther, but they _do_ kiss a great deal, shirts discarded for more warmth, more _contact_ , more of this new intimacy they both chase down with reverent brushes of lips and hands, punctuated by hazy smiles and quiet laughter. Shiro’s happiness has eyes the color of a galaxy stretched across the expanse of a midnight sky, and with his fingers lost in black and hirsute hair, he feels _alive_ , struck with the certainty that _this_ body is more than an empty vessel. It’s _his_ to command, and through Keith’s delectable ministrations, it’s his to share.

They fall asleep wrapped around each other, a tangle of limbs as the stars merge with the horizon. Shiro doesn’t dream, but when the first rays of sunshine filter through, he might as well be. _Dreaming_. Because Keith’s still here, his nose in his neck, his arm over him and his leg between his, nestled tight against his side. He holds him like he’ll never let him go again…

...and home, as they say, is definitely where the heart is.

And it’s a beautiful place.


End file.
